Mercy
by Hermia S
Summary: Arella Surana has loved and lost without ever having the chance to even experience it; Ser Otto has seen too much death and sadness to sit by and allow her to let it slip away. Surana/Cullen, Surana/Alistair.
1. Prologue : Not Yet

He felt respite unlike any he'd experienced in years.

The heat that once pulsed beneath the thick layer of armor now ebbed, leaving sweat slicked skin in its wake. It was the adrenaline moving through his veins alone that kept him from shivering. As the fires around them sizzled into nothing, the large room was overcome with a draft. A more cynical man would have taken this into account.

Still clutched in his grasp was his sword; the silverite blade cooled once more, having no fire-forged limbs to slice into any longer.

From the moment the last Fade demon was slain, something within him shifted; something changed, and he could feel the air rushing into his lungs. A small eternity had passed since he found his way to the Alienage in search for blood mages. He hadn't expected to find anything else, much less a stronger threat than he imagined. He should have felt it. He should have known.

But instead, the Maker sent him the gift of sight in the form of the slight, breathless mage standing before him.

He could hear each breath she took, the creaking of the boards beneath her party's feet. He could smell sweat and blood, the bitingly sweet scent of lyrium potion. He could feel a sense of relief within her that was mirrored by his own.

"We have done it again."

In their wake was a trail of scorched walls and old bones. He wasn't sure how long they'd been fighting, but this was a battle he was eager to finish. The elves in the Alienage were set upon with such worries on a daily basis. It wasn't just his moral obligation to aid them; it was his calling, the thing his heart begged and yearned for. Now the dark presence was abating, leaving behind an air of misery that also rang of hope. The elves could rebuild, and he would stay to help them.

Ser Otto allowed himself a sigh, and it was quickly followed by the smallest of smiles as his eyes fell shut. "I can feel the darkness receding."

Years stood between him and the last time he'd felt such a rush of warmth and accomplishment. While he was still a templar, constantly searching for apostates and maleficar, these missions rarely ended on such a note. The mages were bound and brought to the Tower. He moved on to his next responsibility. Nothing changed. There were always more.

But this - this was something different entirely.

In a large way, he'd helped the elves here. With the demons gone, they would once again be free to live in this space. He'd often heard the jarring hack of a coughing passerby or the quiet snoring of those that slept on the streets. Perhaps once the orphanage was returned to how it was, they would no longer be forced to remain outside. They could find warmth. They could find somewhere to make their home.

His eyes fell upon the young woman standing before him. While he could not see the details of her face, the intricate stitching of her robes, or the expression of pride she wore, he could sense that she was just as pleased as he.

"I have seen the work of demons before," Otto continued, "Some maleficarum consort with them."

She was a mage; he knew she was aware of the connection, but he couldn't keep himself from speaking, his tone surprisingly light now that the threat was gone. For weeks he'd found his way around the Alienage, befriending the elves, hoping that one of them would grow to trust him. Eventually, a few had, but the information he needed was not there.

And now an elf stood before him - a female mage called Arella.

Ever since the maleficar stole away his sight, he'd been able to _sense_ things. Evil prickled at his skin. Impurity ran chills along his spine. Avarice, conceit, betrayal - he felt it all. Still, through it all, there were small glimmers of truth, of honesty and selflessness and justice.

These qualities fell off of Arella in waves. While she was hardly taller than his chest, her strength of spirit was both undeniable and impressive. It'd been so long since he'd experienced being in the company of such a personality. Time often bred immorality, as did coin and idle hours, and as he grew older, he saw the entirety of Ferelden degenerate before his very eyes. His fears of growing weary of only being met with hostility and suspicion were all but halted when this young woman came to stand before him.

"But the Maker must have guided -"

No sooner had the words left his lips did he feel a rush of ice down his back. His speech was torn into silence as the chill was broken, overwhelmed by the licking of flames at his neck. A sticky, hauntingly familiar heat ran over the skin of his shoulders, and the first thing he smelled was his own flesh. Burning. The shirt he wore beneath his armor sizzled and hissed against the plate, but he was too shocked, too overwhelmed to cry out.

The Fade demon lashed out with a blow strong enough to knock him to the floor. Shock kept him silent, his tongue tied around the thoughts that raced through him. _No. Not again. Not this. Not yet. I'm not done._

Above him, the young mage scrambled to find her voice. The warrior by her side drew his sword. The elf drew his blades. The healer's hands went to her staff.

The battle began without him. His nails dug into the splintering wooden planks beneath him as he tried to pull himself up. He had to help. Without him, their chances of survival were low. A scream caught in his throat as he collapsed again, his armor jarring around him, scraping against the burns that ran across his shoulders.

It was too much. The pain was too much.

He could see movement; grayed out, blurred shapes moved just before his eyes. But she was too late, wasn't she? She didn't have enough time to heal him and assist her party. He was only a casualty, something she'd no doubt dealt with on her travels.

He groaned. He could feel her tiny hands on his skin, could feel the hum through her palms. She should've gotten up. She should've taken her staff and killed the damned demon while she had the chance. Why wasn't she moving?

Sounds became blurry, as if his head was underwater, and the shapes before his eyes blinked out of existence. Once, twice; he tried to keep his breaths steady, but his racing heart wouldn't allow it.

His eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped forward.

The last thing he heard was a strident cry for help.

* * *

**A/N:** So I decided to ditch the pitchfork and go for something else entirely. What sort of Fade demon would use a freakin' _pitchfork_? Seriously? He's _magical_. Plus, do most orphanages have pitchforks lying around willy nilly? Dangerous.

I'd also like to thank SerNature for her support! This really wouldn't have existed if not for you. :)


	2. Chapter 1 : Waking

_Three Years Earlier_

Arella ran her hand absently over the leather-bound edition on her lap; her fingers brushed over the cover, trailing curiously over the title's raised lettering and teasing the crisp pages with her palm. She loved books. This love was born of a childhood spent with her pointed nose stuck in the bindings of them, tiny hands grasping for whatever information she could. Most of the time, she barely understood what her eyes lapped up, but it was still there, lying stagnant in her mind, for when she needed it.

This knowledge came in handy eventually, pulling her by the hem of her robes to the forefront of the First Enchanter's attention. None of this would have happened if not for the teachers' recommendations; she was too small and too timid to stand out by her own volition. At least, that was case at first.

Irving often compared her to the flowers that sprouted around the bottom of the Tower at all times during the year - the perennial orbs of blue ironically referred to as Forget-me-nots. His link from the flower to Arella wasn't born of any poorly played compliment to her eyes. Their color was off; the blooms were brighter and more intense a shade of blue. His observation came to be almost naturally. The flowers thrived in the Winter months, just as the elven mage thrived under the added duress that her talents brought onto her shoulders.

For all her timidity, she was quick to make friends. While her younger years were spent alone save for a scant few acquaintances and her mentors, once she began to stand out from the crowd, she no longer found herself lonely. Instead, she was swept up from her bunk to attend midnight lessons with the younger Enchanters, encouraged to read tales of powerful mages from history to the young students. While she enjoyed the attention, she enjoyed the companionship even more.

Eventually, she found herself in the company of an oddly formed "Circle" of her own. One member of this mish-mash of mages and templars was the often teased Cullen. He was quite a bit older, and today he was only adding another notch into his belt. It was his birthday.

Her feet swung back and forth, the slightest bit of impatience creeping into her. The soles of her slippers barely grazed the stone beneath them, making a quiet sound with each arc of movement. She'd been sitting on this bench for what felt like hours, waiting for him to finish with whatever meal the cook whipped up specially for him on today, and she kept having to remind herself that he could take however long he wished no matter how long it kept her waiting.

The book she held was a gift. Irving had been kind enough to spare her a few coins to buy him something the last time the trader came to peddle his wares, and this book stood out among others. It was clearly new, and the trader was quick to smile and tell her this. Fresh off the presses from Denerim, the third edition of a book known all around Thedas. Her fingers roamed for the hundredth time over the title - "Templars of our Time."

She was always nervous when it came to gift giving. Usually she made them herself, but on the rare occasion she was able to put forth a few coins for something else, she worried and worried over whether they would like the present or not. She hoped he would.

To her right, she heard the heavy door leading into the dining room open, the constant, muffled hum of conversation arching into something clearer and louder. Her brows shot up as she leaned forward, craning her neck to see who was leaving. The heavy sound of templar armor filled her ears, and her heart stuttered in her chest for no longer than a moment before a dark-haired man stepped into the bending hallway. Heaving a sigh, she leaned back against, eyes falling to the book. How long did it take to eat?

"So, any requests from the birthday boy?" the first asked another, a wry smile tilting his lips. "I know where they keep the drink, if you're interested."

"I, I'll just be heading back to the library." Thank the Maker; he was finished. Her eyes shot in his direction only to see him smiling towards his compatriot. She couldn't hear his explanation very well, but she caught glimpses of what was clearly an excuse. When he turned away from the elder templar and saw her sitting there, his smile faltered, but was quickly redeemed as he made his way over. "Good afternoon, Arella."

She considered herself lucky when it came to Cullen. She'd heard stories of his stammering affection for one of the other mages, and, while most girls would've recoiled at the idea of not being that _special someone_, Arella preferred their relationship as it was. For one, he actually retained the ability to speak to her in actual, complete sentences. Secondly, she appreciated his friendship; being a mage, it was good to have a templar at your back.

Her cheeks almost hurt from the sheer size of her smile as she leapt up from the bench and rushed over to him. "I got you something," she grinned, handing him the book and watching as he examined it. His dark eyes roamed over the cover, and she found herself shifting on her feet, anxious to see how he'd react.

"Thank you." His voice was quiet, but she could hear a note of happiness that rang out as clear as day. He was inspecting the book thoroughly, weighing it in the palm of his hand, sifting through the pages. "I, I have an older edition, but it seems they have added more to this one." Glancing up from the cover to her face, she could see a dusting of red on the apples of his cheeks. "This - this was completely unexpected."

Arella beamed. "Did you actually think I'd forget about your birthday?"

"Honestly?" he asked with an arched brow, "If anyone else asked me that, I'd say yes."

Tilting her head towards the bench where she'd been sitting, she asked him to tell her a story, one from the book. Her interest in history confused him, but he couldn't say no to her. It was impossible, more so out of fear of having those large, blue eyes stare up at him in question. Was she humoring him, or was she genuinely curious? It didn't matter, and these questions were soon out of his mind as he settled down next to her and opened the book.

There were so many great tales he wanted to share with her, but these were preceded by telling her about the book's author. He was a man famed for his accuracy as well as his delightful turn of phrase; Antiva-born, but living in Denerim; and he was a mage.

This seemed to delight her.

Smiling to himself, Cullen opened the book and turned to the first story, fully conscious of the way she leaned into him, eyes tilted down towards the page, her bottom lip tugged between her teeth in concentration.

"The first is of Ser Vincent, born of Orlais," he began, sneaking a look at her before turning back to the words, "He saved one of the smaller Orlesian towers from one of the single most powerful blood mages of our time, rescuing dozens of others in the process, but falling after the battle was done. There were only two casualties…"

--

_Present Day_

He hadn't expected to wake up.

Just before he fell unconscious, the thought trailed through his mind that each subsequent breath was probably his last. He accepted the fact that he was going to die at the hands of a demon, that he'd helped them save the orphanage from its scourge. The heavy, dreamless sleep that he fell into _felt_ like death, but he saw no Maker, made no ascent into the clouds, and this worried him.

But as he slowly began to regain his awareness, these worries left him completely, replaced with a cacophony of other emotions. Confusion settled in among the clawing desire to lift himself out of this state between sleep and waking. He wanted to move. He wanted to get up. He wanted to ask about the orphanage. He needed words and truth, and he needed them _now_.

Yet, despite this rampant need, he could only manage the smallest of sounds as he opened his eyes. A figure was nearby, and there was another in his home. Ah, yes, this was his home. He was lying in his bed. The air smelled familiar, but there was something different.

"Ah, you're awake."

The voice was memorable, soft and smooth with age and belonging to the healer from the mage's party. So she'd survived. That would explain his current state.

Otto struggled to pull himself up onto his shoulders, but the pain that shot across his shoulders thrust him back down. His features distorted as the pain only worsened by the sudden contact, his stomach twisting as nausea ripped through him and his skin covered in goosebumps. A strangled gasp filled the small room as he dry heaved, legs shifting beneath the blanket as he attempted to curl himself into a more comfortable position.

Wynne was by his side before he had the chance to hurt for any longer. The room was filled with a soft blue glow in a moment's time, and a feeling of relief rolled into the muscles of his back and shoulders. "This will not abate the pain for long, but it will help."

"Thank," the word caught in his throat, dry from lack of use, "Thank you."

She nodded before turning and glancing towards the door. Before the was able to turn back towards the window, he lifted a hand in question, grasping her attention. She watched him as he licked his lips, trying desperately to regain the strength in his voice. "How… How is your party? Your leader?"

"We are fine," Wynne said. Her voice habitually softened when she spoke to the ill, and this templar lying before her was no different. "We fared better than you, ser, but you're healing well. Luck was certainly on your side." She smiled to herself. "It seems to be quite common with you. And Arella is fine. Her only ailment is her own stubbornness."

"What do you mean?"

Settling down on the chair near his bedside, Wynne crossed her hands in her lap. "I doubt she's gotten more than a full night's rest in three days. Between readying everyone for the Landsmeet and keeping an eye on you, she hasn't had the time to shut her eyes."

Otto uttered a quiet, "huh," before her heard the door open. The footfalls that filled his ears were light, and he could hear the shifting of robes. It seemed that even the draft he'd grown so accustomed to over the weeks faded away. "Who are you talking to -" Her words melted into a quiet gasp, followed by the sound of water splashing over the rim of the basin as she came to a sudden stop.

The sound tugged a smile at the corner of his mouth, and she found herself giggling at her own stupidity, fighting the urge to smack herself in the forehead. No sleep, delirious worry, constant fretting - it all culminated in the laughter that left her lips.

"I'm sorry," she hiccupped, moving over to place the basin on his bedside table. "That was… rude of me. Are you - how are you feeling?"

"I could be feeling a lot worse." The tenderness in his voice pulled something in the center of her chest. It took all of her power to keep from staring at him, knowing full well he still retained some of his sight and knew when he was being stared at. But here he was. _Alive_, and it was because of her. His skin did not look so ashen in the pale orange glow of the sunset; she was grateful for that. "Thank you."

Arella shifted on her feet, fingers twining around the sleeve of her robe and tugging at it. "You're welcome," she smiled, eyes boring holes into the floor. "We should probably change your bandages now. That - that's what the water is for."

Wynne was the first to move. As it was, while Arella could easily manage giving orders to anyone else, she balked at the idea of telling the elder mage what to do. The only time she'd ever seen the young Warden give her any commands was three days prior, when she barked out that she needed the healer's assistance. Any floundering respect for the girl was regained in that moment, seeing the compassion in her eyes as she let Wynne take over healing Otto and lunge into action against the Rage demon.

But now, with him awake, it was a completely different story. The quiet, timid young girl had returned with full force, and her feet were rooted so deeply into the ground, Wynne feared she'd pull up the wooden planks if she tried to move.

"Here," the healer murmured, "I will help you lift him, but you must keep him in a seated position. And, ser, you _must_ relax. If you don't, the pain will be worse."

Arella settled down on the edge of the bed, eager to follow any instructions given to her. She didn't need to heal him herself in order to help; that much had been proven entirely in the past few days. The two of them lifted him with care from the mattress, and though Arella gave a hiss of displeasure at the groan that slipped through his teeth as his chest came to rest against her shoulder, she didn't falter.

Pride was not a problem for Otto. Where most men would claw and protest against being helped by two women, he went willingly, eager to supplicate himself to their powers of healing. He was not a fool. He knew they were here to help, not to mock or tease him for his position.

The elven mage was surprisingly strong for her size, though the thought of hurting her did snake through his mind more than once.

He could feel her breath on his cheek, the soft ends of her hair over the skin of his chest.

But above all, he could feel her warmth. Considering the almost painful pulsing of heat that roamed over his shoulders and back, had he not known the difference, the feeling of her holding him up would have been unpleasant. Instead, he allowed the sensation of her flow over him; strong, soft, and so _close_.

Again, he could feel her relief, but even above that, he felt her fingers trembling.

* * *

  
_Again, I don't own BioWare, blah blah blah._

Thanks again to SerNature for being undeniably awesome and supportive. 


	3. Chapter 2 : Healing

**A/N:** Ahem. It's been a while, yes? Haha. As if I could forget about Ser Otto entirely! He's my favorite NPC by far (well, besides Cailan), and I've been running through another game, which always leads to inspiration. So, yes, expect more of this in the days to come. I've already begun planning a post-Awakening story with him in it, so keep an eye out for that whenever I wrap this up in a few chapters! Also, Catherine Amell belongs to SerNature. She and Arella are too cute to let their friendship fall to the wayside just for the sake of story!

* * *

_One Year Earlier._

It came as no surprise when Cullen found Arella sitting near the very top of the tower.

While she was hesitant to do so, she could nearly sneak past anyone at any time, no matter how alert they were, and he soon discovered that this was one of her favorite places to visit when she needed time to herself. The hallways were quiet this far to the top; they were long-deserted but kept in pristine condition from the tranquils' diligent attentions. But she did not go there for the quiet, though she drank up ever bit of silence she could. She climbed up flight after flight of stairs because there were windows.

She was sitting near one of these windows when he discovered her. Her legs were pulled up against her chest, her toes barely curling around the thatched bottom of her chair, and in her hands was a large book, far larger than any he'd ever taken notice to.

The moment she heard clattering of his armor and his heavy footsteps, she knew it was him. Who else would look for her? Or, better yet, was there a Templar in the Circle who even bothered to look for her when she was absent?

Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead as she turned towards the doorway, the familiar outline of Templar armor pulling a smile at the corner of her mouth. While she didn't say a word, this was her greeting, and he took it as such, more than willing to merely walk over to her.

He felt intrusive – as if he was stepping into a private moment and should turn around and leave. No matter how persuasive the voice telling him to turn around was, his worry over her recent isolation was even louder. So instead of making conversation, he stayed his tongue and stepped up in front of the window, the width of his pauldrons blocking out whatever sun had illuminated her face. And her book.

"I can't read with you standing right there, Cullen," she murmured, eyes squinting as she tried in vain to continue the sentence. The words had just barely left her lips when she heard his armor clanging again as he hurried to step out of the way, turning his back to the sill. "I came up here to study, you know. I hope you aren't up here to distract me."

"I was wondering where you were, is all," he confessed, "I haven't seen very much of you lately."

There was a wariness in his tone that she found odd. He never picked and prodded for words around her anymore. Over the years, he'd gotten confident when in her company, even going so far as to joke and tease with her on occasion, should she be willing. That he would be nervous _now_ seemed unheard of, but this opinion was born out of ignorance alone.

By word from both First Enchanter Irving and Wynne, she'd begun preparing for her Harrowing. The news surprised her; she was quite young still, and whatever trust she had in her skills wavered easily under pressure. When this pressure was hefted upon her shoulders, she forced herself into grueling hours of study. Her lessons suffered due to her lack of sleep, a factor that planted seeds of doubt in everyone who knew what she was up against, but she was unaware of how this would effect her in the coming week.

A few of those same doubtful spores were taking root in her friend. He'd hardly spoken to her in the past week, which was enough for him to realize something was wrong. Her nose was so often buried in a book, she often walked right past him in the hallway without saying a word.

The Harrowing was the single most important moment in a mage's life. That much had been told to them from their first lesson onwards, peppered with tales of what would happen to them if they were not chosen to go through with it. You either went through the Harrowing, became a Tranquil, or were killed. All it took was enough knowledge to know that harrowing meant agonizing, and suddenly everyone was wondering which of the three choices would be worst. Arella was one of those people. To say that she was nervous would have been a complete understatement. But she'd have sooner launched herself from the top of the Hold before admitting it to anyone.

Well, anyone but Cullen. She trusted Cullen; he would listen to her and ease her worries, right? If he said she would be fine, she would be fine... right?

Her shoulders bobbed as she heaved a sigh, her neck lolling backwards until she felt the crown of her head pressed against the back of the chair. "I have three days," she murmured, her palms pressing against the pages, fingers splaying over spells that refused to sink in all the way. "If I don't absorb as much of this as I can, who knows what'll happen to me."

"You're going to be _f-fine_, Rell." She cracked open an eye at him, and he cleared his throat. The quavering in his voice had done the very opposite of what he'd intended. "Cat hardly studied during the week before her Harrowing, and she was through in no more than an hour."

Again, she looked at him, though this time she pulled her face all the way towards his, awarding _that_ ridiculous statement with a raised brow. No matter how much she adored Catherine Amell, she was last on the list of people who she willingly molded herself after. In fact, if she did _anything_, it was inspire Arella in the opposite direction entirely. Looking back to her book, her index trailed absently over the leaf of an elfroot plant. "All the more reason to study then, hm? Maker knows I'm nowhere near a prodigy."

"I didn't mean it like that," he pressed. "I only meant that all of this studying isn't... completely necessary. You look tired."

Arella wet her lips. Patting down one of the pages, she looked up at him, both brows tilted upwards this time. "You're as persuasive as Owain is charming, you know." She paused, lifting the book to cradle it against her chest as she shifted on the chair. Her legs slipped down, toes pressed against the floor, and she stared directly into his face. "Something's bothering you."

"No-nothing's _bothering_ me, Rell," he muttered, turning towards the window again, as if he was purposely making himself seem more suspicious. He wasn't, but her curiosity wasn't sated. When she opened her mouth to tell him that he was clearly lying, his response made her snap her mouth shut, "I don't want to talk about it. Can't; I _can't_ talk about it."

"Fine," she said as she reached over and grabbed the chair at her side. The legs ground against the floor, and he turned to look over his shoulder as she pulled it up next to her. "Then help me study."

* * *

_Present Day_.

"You have better things to do, I'm sure, than to play nurse to an old Templar."

For the past week, every time Ser Otto said more than a word, Arella glanced up from her book and beamed at him. Whether this was out of genuine gladness that he was alive or pride born of her own skills, he'd never know. Some small part of him enjoyed believing it was due to the former, however. Now that he was very nearly healed and already walking around on his own, she continued reading, even as he spoke, though she did grin at the pages.

Her grin didn't even falter as she flipped to the next story, smoothing her fingers over the worn page as her eyes ran over the one opposite, searching to find what she'd read about next. "You're not," she said, her voice soft, as she wriggled deeper into the cushions.

Despite her protestations, Otto had insisted she find something softer to sit on. He could tell her back was suffering from the poorly cushioned chair in his room, and he didn't need the woman who saved his life in pain due to her own stubbornness. He spoke to Alistair, amused at how passionately Arella _insisted_ it wasn't necessary despite the tightness in her voice when the young warrior set his heavy hand upon her back. Her discomfort was obvious and entirely unnecessary.

"Pardon?" he asked, leaning heavily on his bent elbow as he looked across the room in her direction.

"You're not _that_ old." Glancing up from her book, she leaned over just far enough to run a hand over his forehead. Her thumb massaged at the deep lines between his brows. "You just worry. That's what those are from. I daresay we're all going to have them when the Blight is over."

He smiled at that, a soft turn of his lips. Only a sliver of teeth was bared, but that was enough. She found that even the smallest of smiles were meaningful when they were his. That thought alone was the thing that reminded her of both Cullen and Alistair. They were cut from completely different cloth, but their smiles never failed to bring forth some strong emotional response in her. While the memory of Cullen's smile struck a pang in her chest, Alistair's sent a warmth right through her, causing her pulse to quicken. And Otto's smile made her do the same, except she smiled so wide in response that her cheeks often hurt.

When she pulled her hand away, he settled carefully onto his back. He was healing quickly due in no small part to Arella's constant fretting and her surprising talent. There were moments when he could have sworn she outstripped even Wynne, though the young elf was quick to deny this. His comments often led to her fumbling, her fingers growing clumsy and nervous laughter bubbling out of her as if she couldn't stop herself.

Her reactions were charming, even if they spoke of her naivety when it came to the attentions of a man. His observations caught a very distinct hesitance whenever Alistair was around, as if she was unsure of herself, something that surprised him at first. She'd proven herself to be one of the most capable, strong-willed women he'd ever come into contact with, and he'd been practically raised in the Chantry, where there was no shortage of capable, strong-willed women.

Otto made a quiet, contemplative noise, crossing his hands over his stomach. "Are you nearly finished with that book?" he asked, his eyes shut for the time being. The embrace of the pillows cradling the back of his head was comforting enough to allow him ignorance to the lingering pain in his shoulders and back. "You have been reading it for a week now."

"I've finished it a dozen times over," she chuckled, thumbing over another page.

"Hm? Which is it? Maybe I've heard of it."

Arella leaned against the arm of the small couch, her head resting against the curve of it. "You probably have," she said slowly, "It's called _Templars of Our Time_." He made another thoughtful sound, and she knew that he had, in fact, heard of it, which wasn't surprising at all, considering he was _in_ the book. She'd only discovered that slender chapter containing his story after she'd spoken to him that first time in the Alienage. At the time, it hadn't been proper to react as she'd so wanted to. The moment was sombre, but she wanted nothing more than to ask him if he was _really_ Ser Otto, the templar who'd chased a band of maleficarum into the Free Marches only to have his sight stolen away.

A hint of a smile touched his cheek, "Ah, yes, I have heard of it. I remember telling Azzo to keep my chapter brief only to find out later that he'd taken me seriously." Rubbing the back of his hand with his palm, he glanced over to her. "He came to me to ask for my story two years after I returned to Ferelden and my sight was already gone."

She knew what he would ask her. Shutting the book, if only for a moment, she pulled herself up from the seat and crossed the short distance to his bed. The comfort that came over her whenever he was near cast aside any wariness she might have had about climbing up with any other man. He was vastly different, and she knew that he did not mind.

Careful in her movements, she crawled over him to sit with her back against the wall, her legs resting over his knees, and she opened the book again. A thin scarlet ribbon held the place where his chapter began. She was thankful for its brevity. She'd been able to read it time and again while he was recovering, so thoroughly that she could have recited it nearly word for word without even flipping a page. But her talents in recitation weren't what was important now. He wanted to hear what Ser Azzo had written about him.

"I have come across many men while researching the stories included in this book," she began, not bothering to tuck the chop of brown hair that fell into her face behind her ear. "But scarce few of them live today. So many of them are long since dead – heroes in their time, yes, but myths in ours."

Otto swallowed thickly, humility already driving him to wonder whether Azzo's prose would not be as straight-forward as he recalled. He remembered reading the first edition when he was little older than twenty years. He remembered the sparse, yet complimentary script, the sweeping scope and brilliant clarity of a man who truly knew what he was doing. He did not deserve flowery prose, nor did he deserve the effusive commendations of a man who knew of so many men better than he.

"When I was first introduced to Ser Otto Albelin of South Reach, I knew that I had come into contact with a living myth, a legend that yet drew breath, and in that moment, I was changed." A smile crept into her voice. The feeling was familiar. "He sacrificed more in one moment of bravery than most of us will sacrifice in our entire lives. The very Maker-given gift that told him where to drive his sword was stolen from him, and yet his blade strikes true, a blessing if I have ever witnessed one."

She paused only for a moment, her breath catching in her throat when she felt Otto's hand on her elbow, his calloused thumb pressing against her skin, a silent appeal for her to continue. So she did.

This was the last moment of true peace she would be awarded for some time. The Landsmeet loomed overhead. The worst of the Blight had yet to reach the gates of Denerim. Both she and Alistair knew something was coming, their insight far greater than a mere _feeling_ or intuition. Their dreams were becoming clearer. Brighter. Bloodier.

While sitting with Otto could have easily been passed off as her watching over him, it was the complete opposite in a sense. Lying feet away from him with her nose in the same tattered book she'd given Cullen all those years ago was comforting in a way nothing else was these days.

Even without saying a word, he gave her the sense of mind she needed to prepare herself for what was coming and to calm her when she feared it.


	4. Chapter 3 : Challenges

_One Year Earlier._

Catherine Amell and Jowan watched as Arella shifted on her bunk. She was in a deep sleep, so deep in fact that she wasn't roused by the sound of her own whimpering as she normally would have been. It was a sad sight. Her dark hair clung to her face and throat, her tiny lips parted each time she drew a shaky breath, her brow wrinkled as she fought against whatever she saw in her dreams.

"Wake her up," the female mage said plainly, though she didn't look away from the elf. Dark eyes narrowing, her head drifted to the side. She hadn't had nightmares after the Harrowing, but she understood how someone might be gripped by them after going through _that_.

"Wh-what?" Jowan shook both his head and his hands, taking an involuntary step back. "The last time you told me to do that, she shocked me."

Cat huffed. "And you wonder why they won't put you through the Harrowing. Coward." Before he had time to protest, she was already moving away from him. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder, she bent down beside Arella's bunk, a hand reaching out to touch the elf on her arm. When she didn't stir, the elder mage gave her a bit of a shake.

In all of a moment, Cat was nearly thrust backwards as Arella was torn from her dream, her hands pushing desperately at the one resting on her arm. "Get off me!" The words left her mouth in a rush, and she clawed at the mattress in an attempt to pull herself away from both of them and into a seated position. She could only just feel the chill of her dream receding, though the man's face still shadowed the back of her mind as if she'd never woken up, his bright green eyes boring into her as she blinked and rubbed at her own.

"Maker's breath, Rell," Jowan murmured from behind Cat, who flapped an arm at him, a sure sign for him to shut up. He'd never seen her so _scared_ before. Even though she was a little thing, nearly everyone in the Tower knew that looks were a lot more deceiving in her case than others. Enchanter Niall had gotten a shock himself for surprising her in class once, and she hadn't apologized, either.

"Not your average, run-of-the-mill nightmare, I take it?"

Rubbing at her eyes with her fist, Arella took a shuddering breath as she tried to soothe her racing heart. "No." Her voice was tiny and hollow, as if she'd said nothing at all, her mouth remaining parted in a tiny 'o.' She looked towards Jowan, her eyebrows knitting together. It did not take much to make the elder mage look perplexed, but the way she regarded him was certainly enough. "J-Jowan, I need to talk to Cat."

Catherine twisted just enough on her feet to cast a thin-lipped look at him. His eyes went from her to Arella and back again before he sighed heavily and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Fine. Fine. I'm going. Just... go see Irving whenever you're finished. He wants to see you."

When they were finally alone, Cat pulled herself up to sit on the edge of Arella's bunk. Jowan was always too nosy for his own good. His agreeing to leave so easily surprised her; he was usually set on sticking around until he knew more than he should have. "That old kook can wait." She reached out, setting her hand on her friend's arm, thumb absently stroking over the fabric of her robes. "Was this about the Harrowing?"

"Sort of." Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she slipped her arm away from Cat only to curl them both around her knees as she hugged her thighs to her chest. "S'about Mouse."

"Ah." Cat brought her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "It all makes sense now. Did he give you that bull about being a Senior Enchanter one day? The most powerful mage the Circle has ever seen? I was having an _off day, _and he still gave me that speech. He's given it so many times before he could probably give it with his mouth closed."

Arella shook her head, her chin resting on her knee. "He... he said I was powerful, but he didn't say anything about being a Senior Enchanter." Swallowing thickly, she leaned her head down until her mouth was pressed against her leg, her blank stare settling on the mattress just beside Cat's thigh. Closing her eyes wasn't an option, especially not when it was in thought. Any of those _thoughts_ of him would only bring back a stronger, more potent memory. "He said that I'm too soft-hearted, that it would end up meaning my end."

When she looked back up at Catherine, her wide, blue eyes were filled to the brim with tears. "He almost had me. H-He was so close, but something kept him from taking hold of me. I don't know what."

Cat let out a whoosh of air, eyebrows lifting high on her forehead. "I didn't think you'd _let him in_, Rell."

"I was so... _so_ close. He kept telling me that he needed my help, that he thought I could s-save him. I wanted to. I wanted to save him, to right whatever wrongs the Templars had done." Her expression distorted as she bit back a sob. "If I'd let him in, they'd have killed me. I-I'm not ready for this. I'm not strong enough."

"You _are_ strong enough." Scooting forward, Cat slipped her hand behind Arella's neck, pulling her close enough to plant an oddly sweet kiss on her forehead. "You're just too empathetic. We'll turn you into stone soon enough, I think."

Looking up at her, she nodded, her full lips sucked into her mouth as she silently mulled over her friend's words.

"Now, get out of that bunk. You've a _bed_ waiting for you now."

* * *

_Present Day._

Arella managed a small nod in Ser Cauthrien's direction before turning to head towards the Landsmeet chamber. She'd taken half a dozen steps before she found that she was holding her breath. The last time she'd been confronted by Loghain's second in command, she and Alistair found themselves trapped in Fort Drakon. Considering what had transpired the last time, her hesitance to turn her back on the woman was well-founded, even with Anora nowhere in sight.

She nearly launched herself out of her skin when she felt a heavily gauntleted hand come to rest upon her shoulder. Twisting around, she saw Alistair looking down at her, his brows pinched together in a look of genuine concern.

"You should relax," he murmured, his voice oddly tight, "From what Eamon's told me, they _feed_ off of your nerves, and I'd like to get you out of there free of scratches. They're viscous, they are. And I just realized that I'm probably not helping you at all." He winced. "Sorry."

Staring up at him, a thin wrinkle ran over her forehead as her expression shifted from surprise to slight, albeit strained amusement. "You know, there's a phrase that comes to mind..."

"I know, I know." Chuckling, he nudged her in the direction of the heavy door. "Pot, kettle, black."

When they entered the Landsmeet chamber, Eamon was speaking. Ever since he'd recovered, the strength of his voice always surprised her. He was an eloquent speaker, and she found her confidence spiking as she watched those around him listen intently. He was on their side. Not only was he on their side, but his state of health was her party's doing.

But things were never as simple as that. Striding into the Landsmeet with such a controversial intent as removing Loghain as the regent would never be such. Anora's promises to back them, to announce that he father was no longer regent and that she would be their sovereign ruler, did not feel nearly as genuine as they would have if she had not betrayed them to Ser Cauthrien so easily. They would be forced to wait, to wait and see if she would keep her word and if they would be victorious.

Through all of this worry and apprehension, Arella knew where she stood. She knew what she was to say and precisely how to say it in order to surprise the nobles _and_ Loghain, who seemed taken aback to hear such a little elf make such excellent points. She spoke of the Tevinter slavers, of finding the Alienage in shambles, and of the fall of the South, but none of this compared to the heat in her voice when she spoke of Howe and what she found in his dungeon.

Still that was not enough to take him down. He, as always, had a retort prepared, his tongue all but barbed, ready and waiting for her to lean heavily upon the late arl's personal vendettas.

"Whatever Howe may have done," Loghain continued, "he should have been brought before the seneschal." His chin tilted back as he took an unconscious step forward, his light eyes shifting from the clenched jaw of the Warden to skim along those gathered. He knew that these people would see sense. They would see that the Warden's actions were illegal; unjust. When next he spoke, his voice had taken on an altruistic tone, as if the truth was staring them all in the face and they need only open their eyes. "There is no justice in butchering a man in his home."

"You say that like he deserved anything more than what he got."

Everyone turned to look in the direction of the voice come from behind Arl Eamon. Both Arl Wulff and Bann Alfstanna jerked to attention, having recognized the woman by the sound of her alone, and the bann's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the speaker. A ghost had chosen to visit the Landsmeet.

Elissa Cousland leaned heavily upon a thick, waist high walking stick as she moved forward, unable to keep her pace slow despite her limp. Her unwillingness to remain quiet was what pulled her forward so quickly, each stride hitting the wooden floor with a loud _thunk_ that nearly echoed up to the high ceilings. When she reached the canopy looking down upon Loghain and the Warden's party, she stopped.

She commanded the attention of all present with little more than a string of words. Leaning heavily upon the banister, the knuckles of her right hand flashing white as she gripped it as tightly as she was able, her eyes narrowed in the regent's direction. Her other palm rested against the smooth wood, fingers barely able to lay flat against the surface.

Gasps echoed throughout the chamber. Word had been passed around that she'd been slain with her parents that night in Highever. The castle had been overwhelmed by men under the command of the Warden, many claimed, gone there to take over the city in an attempt to garner a seat of strength to rest and recover their numbers. But Arl Howe refused to back down, refused to see his dear friend's family killed for nothing. His men fought back these degenerates, and he was given the teyrnir as compensation.

In the week since they'd found her sitting, forgotten, in the bowels of Howe's dungeon, her appearance had changed drastically. With her thick, tangled mass of hair chopped nearly to the scalp, her features were no longer concealed in that curtain of blood and dirt. They could see the cold edge of hate in her eyes now, her wide mouth twisted in a grimace that deepened the scar that ran through it at the corner.

"You may not have started the rumor of what happened at Highever. In fact, I am sure that those words were Howe's. But you fortified it." Swallowing the bile that teased at the back of her throat, she glared down at him, her blunted nails digging into the underside of the balustrade. "You gave him the teyrnir. And then you made him the Arl of Denerim. You handed him _everything he needed_."

Loghain did not even shrink away. He did not wince or take a step back. The man hardly blinked in the face of the woman who could very well turn half of these people against him. The Couslands were much beloved in the Landsmeet. He'd known Bryce personally, had known him to be a lawful and kind man. And now they were faced with his daughter. No doubt many of them remember a little upstart of a girl, who despite her braids and chubby cheeks was the first to speak up when something wasn't right.

"I handed him what he deserved," the regent spoke up, his level gaze reaching up to Elissa's face once again. "I am no psychic. I possess no ability to tell whether something transpired or not when I was not there and no one lives who witnessed it first hand. How was I to know the truth of what happened on that night?"

A sharp crack filled the air as Elissa's palm smashed against the banister, splintering slightly beneath the blow. "You would have to be blind to not see the truth!"

Eamon's eyes flew in her direction, and he just barely bit back the urge to tell her to calm herself.

"Even I could tell that he was lying through his teeth," she went on. Her earlier roar quieted into something lower, the underlying film of grief grating against those who listened. "He was like family, but I was not so _stupid_ as to not realize that something was wrong!"

Loghain's brows cinched inward. "He has given me no reason to distrust him."

"And you have given us no reason to trust _you_!" Grinding her teeth together, she let go of the banister and took a step down the length of the canopy, closer to where he was standing. Those standing in her way parted respectfully, stepping back until she was given enough room to pass. Bann Sighard gave her a knowing nod, his bottom lip bitten raw. This woman knew what his son had gone through; in fact, she'd probably been through worse. "Everything you've accomplished means nothing. You've betrayed the country you claim you saved, and my father remains in an unmarked grave because you hadn't the presence of mind to suspect the obvious."

"You go too far," Loghain replied in warning. "I have spilled enough blood to fill half the men and women in this room. I have done more for this country than you or anyone here could boast."

Elissa sneered. "Your arrogance is _astounding_."

Taking a shaky breath, she looked to the Warden. Arella Surana was small, but she'd seen her paralyze an entire room of soldiers. She'd seen her create a storm of snow and lightning that could clear a field of men. She'd seen her bleed. The man standing at her side, Alistair, was capable of the same, as was the red-headed woman who stood on the opposite side of the two.

When she looked away from them, she brought her shoulders back, a second wind of confidence lifting her higher on her feet. "Arl Bryland fought with my father in the battle of White River. Are you so bold as to belittle what he has done?" She looked to Leonas Bryland only to see him give her a nod. "And the Wardens – they single-handedly saved Redcliffe from a scourge, the fault of which lies upon you, ser. They fought through the Deep Roads and crowned a king. They saved Kinloch Hold from countless blood mages and abominations."

Lifting her hand from the banister once more, she pointed in Arella's direction. "She may not have cast the Orlesians out of Ferelden. She may have no title besides that of a Grey Warden. But you were _not_ alone at the River Dane. You were not the only man there, and yet you _survive_ on the glory it's given you while everyone else is expected to bow their heads to a distinct gentleman such as yourself."

"I expect nothing that I have not earned," Loghain shot back, this time taking a long stride closer to her. His voice was slowly being stripped of its cool edge, revealing pieces of him gone soft from festering hate and paranoia. "I have made sacrifices for this country and have asked for _nothing_ in return. Everything I have today is because of what I have accomplished, in compensation for my sacrifices."

Elissa's lips parted in faint surprise, a sharp breath leaving her as she swayed on her feet. "You cannot believe that you are the only one here who has been forced to make such sacrifices."

"I never proposed such a notion. I have seen the things men and women were forced to give up long before _you_ even drew breath. The harsh reality is softened quite a bit when told as a bedtime story for overly curious little girls."

At that, Arl Bryland took a step forward on the canopy directly across from her. "Suffering is not reserved for history alone, Loghain." Looking towards Elissa, he felt his heart twist in his chest. He'd considered Bryce Cousland a brother, and the woman standing there was one he thought of as the daughter he'd hoped and prayed to have. To see her wounded in such a way only to have her pain cast aside as nothing was infuriating. "I – as have many of us here – have seen what the Blight is doing to our lands and our people. They suffer. And if we continue on this path you are set on laying before us, they will continue to suffer."

"Indeed!" Wulff called out. "We require the help of the Wardens to fight these creatures back to where they came from. We cannot do it alone! So far you haven't proven to be of much help, either."

"You see?" Elissa turned her gaze upon Loghain once more, though the man's face had not changed since the last. How someone could retain such a facade with his entire hold crumbling around him, she dare not venture to guess. "The hero of River Dane was enough when all you fought were chevaliers. This threat is far greater and far beyond what you deign to believe."

At that, Loghain's mask cracked, the corner of his mouth turning downward. "You have no _idea_ what this country is facing, girl. You-"

He was silenced when her hand gave a decisive slice downward. "I have nothing to add," she said, "and as such, I am no longer needed here." Her throat rose and fell as she swallowed another harsh lump in her throat. She could not clench her fist any harder around her walking stick. If she tried, she feared it would snap in two. "I hope the blade is sharp. No one deserves to be hacked at for longer than is necessary."

With that, she turned, and she moved in the direction of the staircase leading out of the chamber, not even bothering to linger long enough to hear his shouted reply.

...

"I swear, I thought he was going to sprout wings and fly up to that balcony to force her to listen to him," Arella laughed, leaning her chin onto her folded arm.

Otto was sitting up now with his back leaning against the wall. With both her and Wynne's healing powers behind him, he was almost to full health. Just that morning, before the Landsmeet had begun, he'd even strapped on his armor. He'd have to gain a bit of weight back in order for it to fit as it had before, but he was content with that.

He chuckled now, his hands lacing in his lap. The Warden was surprisingly easy to excite, but he'd never heard her speak in such an animated way about anything. It was as if she'd been visited by the Maker that afternoon and not the teyrn of Highever's daughter. "She sounds like an extraordinary woman."

"Oh, she _is_," the Warden grinned. "I had no idea she was even going to be there, much less swing whatever nobles backing Loghain to our favor."

"I remember you mentioning her once or twice. What Howe did to her was unforgivable, and knowing that you helped bring him the... justice that he deserves should help her rest easier." Arella watched him curiously as he tilted his head backwards to rest against the wall, his slender fingers teasing the back of his hand in a circle as he thought. "I don't know of many who would be able to stand up to him in such a way after what happened."

Pursing her lips, the little elf tried to remember exactly how Elissa had phrased her explanation. Both she and Alistair had discovered their new friend standing outside the Landsmeet chamber. Despite the glassy look in her eyes, she'd held herself a little higher when she asked of the outcome, a slight tilt to her chin. "She said... She said that she was able to be there and say those things because her wounds were no longer fresh. She'd had her time to heal. Knowing that she could help was enough, I suppose, to convince her that it was a good idea."

Just then, there was a knock at his door. Rell's attention jerked in the direction of Alistair as he poked his head in, a smile lighting his face. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Eamon's fit to be tied. Anora wants to speak to the _Warden_ and evidently I'm no better than a hunk of moldy cheese."

"Oh! She told me that she wanted to talk to me, but I forgot." Laughing, she scrambled up from her seat beside Otto's bed. How she could forget that the _Queen_ wanted to talk to her, she wasn't sure, but she _was_ sure that she'd never gotten up so fast in all of her life. Hurrying over to Otto's side, she dug a knee into the bed and hugged him as she usually did, though she remained as careful as she had since the very first time. "You really don't have to listen to me ramble on and on all the time, you know."

Otto's laugh was quiet and warm; his palm was heavy on her back. "I like to listen. You tell some very interesting stories."

Rolling her eyes at him, she pulled away, rushing to the door only to stop cold in her tracks a moment later. Before he was able to ask her what was wrong, she'd whirled around and grabbed for the book on the bedside table, murmuring something about the volume and how absent-minded she was.

"And next time you visit," he told her as she went to leave behind Alistair, "you have to tell me where you came about that book."

She paused, her entire body gone rigid, only to look back at him with a bitten lip, her fingers clutching onto the book. "Okay. I'll... remember that." Nodding, mostly to herself, she turned back towards the door. "It was nice visiting with you. Wynne should be here later."

A small smile and another nod later, and she was gone.


End file.
